Hot Slice, A PostApocalyptic Ode to Bad Porn
by The Black Sluggard
Summary: Daryl's been waiting his whole life for a chance to tip the pizza boy. Slash, Daryl/Glenn.


It was stupid, really. Daryl acknowledged that. But the sex he'd had when he was a teenager had been, at the very same time, both the best and worst sex in his life. Best, because he hadn't known any better to realize what he was really missing. Worst, because even as inexperienced as he was, he'd known that as long as he was having it by himself, he wasn't really doing it right.

Still, as pathetic as those years had been, they inspired a twisted kind of nostalgia. Like part of him wanted to be sixteen again and have his brother shoving him around.

(Still alive, and before his first stint in prison.)

To get caught stealing Merle's beers and his porno and get called a dirty little fucker for doing it.

(Always with half a laugh, because in a weird way it had made his big brother proud.)

The sweat of harmless fear as he popped the tape into the VCR sometime after their ma went to bed, but before his dad woke up for work the next day.

(_"...hot and fresh and on your doorstep in less than thirty minutes..."_)

The less than harmless fear of what any one of them would do if they knew the dreams that he'd had about having some dark-eyed Italian stud show up at their door.

("_Quit bein' such a fag about it, Daryl, it's just a little blood._")

And it didn't make a lot of sense that, out of all the things he might have wound up remembering over and over again about the day they failed to save his brother, for some reason that _one _had to find its place in his brain to get stuck.

(And Glenn doesn't look anything like the guy, but hell, that guy's probably stumbling around somewhere with his guts hanging out of him, anyway.)

And none of it had to mean anything. Not then. Not right away. Not until the group set up camp in that roadside stop. It was just few restaurants and a couple of gas stations, like a tiny island of civilization forgotten in the middle of nowhere. Not that many cars, and the motel was free of walkers.

It meant nothing until Rick and T-Dog got ready to go scout out any gas that might be left in the tanks at the station while and Andrea and the others set up in the rooms on the top floor, bar off the stairs and make so it's secure enough for them rest up for a while. And Daryl was all set to do some scavenging around those restaurants for anything edible, and everyone raised a fuss about him going alone.

("_Take Glenn. He ain't gonna slow you down, Daryl, you know fast he can move._")

So he'd bit his tongue and took him along. And still, none of it meant anything. Nothing. At all.

Not until he put that stupid fucking hat on.

("_Brings back memories..._")

It was kind of funny how wide his eyes got when Daryl crowded in on him. He didn't kiss him right away, just let his mouth hover near Glenn's for a moment, their lips inches apart. Give the skinny chink a chance to run if he wanted, because Rick was right, Daryl knew exactly how fast he could move.

(But Glenn didn't, and Daryl wasn't about to give him any second chance.)

"What brought this on?" Glenn breathed at him a little later.

His eyes were confused, perhaps pleasantly surprised. And Daryl was surprised, though not pleasantly, the kid could even ask a dumb question like that when he's got a hand on Glenn's dick, because it wasn't like he didn't know what he was doing.

"We doin' this or ain't we?"

(Because how fucking dumb would it sound if he admitted to getting all hot and bothered over the logo on a hat?)

No one in the group seemed real surprised when they share a room at the motel that night.

The all agreed the group should spend the next two days picking the place clean before moving on. Everyone went to bed early that last night. They weren't likely to see real beds again for a long time, so everyone was determined to make the most of it. Daryl intended to do just that. But there was more to a motel room than just a bed and a Bible no one would ever read.

(It also had a door and a doorstep, and god damn it if Daryl was going to move on without making the most of that too.)

He still felt like an idiot, standing there with the box and the shirt and that god damned hat, and Glenn staring at him like he'd grown a second head. Or he assumed the man was still staring. Daryl had turned his head, and was too busy pretending not to care. He didn't look back until he felt the box being tugged out of his hands.

"Okay," Glenn said, drawing the word out slowly with a reluctant nod, "but if you say the words 'hot sausage' at any time, I'm walking out that door."

Glenn's expression was still dubious and just a little embarrassed, but so long he was willing to play ball just this once, then Daryl would fucking take it.

(And his brother was dead and the world had gone to shit, and maybe Glenn was no Italian porno stud, but damn if it wasn't still some of the best sex he'd had in his life.)


End file.
